


Hurt Me Once.

by KHlove065



Series: Sing To Me Instead [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 20:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20264275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHlove065/pseuds/KHlove065
Summary: A look into Blaine’s mind during episode  4x04, "The Break-Up".





	Hurt Me Once.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Ben Platt's song "Hurt Me Once." I challenged myself to write this in twenty minutes and keep it as concise as I possibly could. It's the first draft so it's a little raw, but I think that's appropriate for this story.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!

[_I'm sure it was nothing_

_But you never used to bring somebody else along]_

It was the fifth time. The fifth time that week that his call had been forwarded to voicemail.

[_It used to be our thing_

_Going to the movies, then we wander home]_

He tried not to be stifling. He tried not to be clingy. He tried to detach, to loosen, to breathe.

How could he?

He _missed _him. So much that his chest was unbearably tight with it, his heart constricting, his stomach crumpling. An ever present lump in his throat throbbed, pulsed, _ached,_ swollen and tender. It hurtto swallow around.

He missed the small things, the infinitesimal things, insignificant things that gained a greater importance to Blaine with every passing second, every fleeting moment, every abandoned phone date, every unanswered call.

The curve of his slender wrists. The nimbleness of his thin fingers. The dip of his pale hip bones. The soft skin of his pastel thighs. The smooth surface of his light-toned stomach. The dimple that punctured his cheek every time Blaine tickled him there with too-light fingertips.

He was dependent. He was needy. He knew that, he got that, he understood that, he _despised _that. Because Kurt- Kurt _wasn't_.

Kurt was liberated, free, soaring, spreading his vividly majestic wings in a world that was finally deserving of someone as unique as him.

Blaine couldn't hold him back. He didn't want to hold him back. He told him to _leave._

And Kurt promised.

Kurt promised he would never lose him.

[_All these little land mines_

_All these little things that one can read two ways]_

Being upset made him feel guilty.

Being sad made him feel selfish.

What was he supposed to do?

He was stuck. Trapped. Stunted. The halls of McKinley were suffocating, mocking and brooding and taunting. Everywhere he turned he was presented with a stab of nostalgia, an agonizing reminiscence, a flash of a memory, a sparkle of _him._

Things used to be vibrant.

Now they just felt dark.

And Kurt either didn't notice, or didn't seem to care.

[_Like when you take every call outside_

_It seems that I've forgotten how to read your face]_

Isabelle.

The name was branded into Blaine's battered heart. The sore muscle, overworked and exhausted, bled with every curve of ink, each syllable slicing excruciatingly deep into the withering film that pathetically attempted to still cover it.

It tasted vile in his mouth.

He didn't want things to be vile. He wanted Kurt.

But Kurt had so much more than him now.

Sweet, whimsical, _beautiful, _Kurt. Inspiring and spellbinding and captivating, a beacon of everything _good._

He wanted to be worthy of his attention again. He never realized how blessed he was before. He should have cherished him more before he lost him.

Except he hadn't lost him, he had to keep reminding himself. They were still together.

But he had never directly perceived the weight of distance before, the merit of a number, the heaviness of a value, large and substantial and taxing. It commanded him, drained him, sucked him of everything he had till he was withering and debilitated.

He had lost him in some capacity, hadn't he?

[_But I know you too well to get it wrong]_

He loved him. With everything he had.

He would never love anyone the way he loved him.

He was _gone. _And Blaine was the one who made him go.

Because leaving was what was best for him.

And that hurt. So fucking bad.

Kurt was there but he wasn't _there. _He was far off, distracted, floating and existing in some other plane that Blaine could only dream of, that he had to imagine and create and envision based on only the flutter of Kurt's words.

He didn't seem to register, to listen, to _hear_ what Blaine said.

Blaine stopped talking. He didn't tell him about the election for senior class president. He didn't tell him about glee club. He didn't tell him how utterly alone he felt. Isolated. An outcast. Completely out of alignment without Kurt, in a place that he came to _for _Kurt.

He didn't belong at McKinley. He was nothing without Kurt.

The spot where he belonged in Kurt's new life seemed to be fading, grass growing over a crack in the pavement.

Nothing he did mattered anymore. The last few things that seemed accomplishing, that he was passionate about, that he was proud of, that made him feel _valuable, _crumpled around a slithering vine and shrunk, dwindled and shriveled and _died._

He didn't belong anywhere.

But this was Kurt's dream. He wasn't going to taint it with his pity.

An endless spiral. A darkening chamber. A raging war fought behind the thin sheath of eyelids.

He tried to remember that Kurt loved him.

Once upon a time, he used to tell Blaine he did.

It was harder to believe now. Kurt was too busy to say it anymore.

[_If you have to hurt me, hurt me once_

_If you have to end it, get it done]_

What else could he say to him?

He cried out. He raised every flag. Pleaded. Begged. He hoped Kurt would save him, prayed he would grasp his outstretched palm that rested on the surface of the ice cold water, fingertips whispering blue.

He was dragged down by the weights on his feet, lower, lower, lower, pulled by some demanding gravity that spread deep and heavy from his core, toward the course, dull sand, his body landing with a heavy thud.

He slipped underwater. Silent and bleak and chilling.

No one was there to pull him out.

[_You have all these choices_

_I have none]_

He was regressing.

Kurt opened up his life, expanded it and broadened it and didn't ask him to change, but showed him that he _could-_ allowed him to grow and blossom into the person he was meant to be.

It all seemed to be in vain.

He was afraid again. He was cowering. He was terrified.

Slowly, he morphed back into the person who tasted blood in his mouth, felt it trickle down his nose, his lip, his cheek as he was slammed repeatedly into the ground, asphalt grazing teeth, rough pebbles on his tongue, a searing pain in his twisted arm, his body held captive under meaty, brawny hands.

_Courage._

How ironic it seemed in retrospect.

Blaine had never needed to teach Kurt courage. Kurt always was capable of more than he was.

[_You're all that I have to lose_

_Couldn't hurt you if I wanted to]_

Talking to him would help.

Telling him how he felt would probably at least marginally begin to fix things.

But he was so tired of reaching out and being ignored, being tossed aside, being a second choice.

He was sick of talking.

He was sick of thinking.

He needed his boyfriend. He needed Kurt like he needed air to breathe.

But he wasn't there.

He needed to feel something again.

He needed to forget.

But most of all, he needed Kurt to notice him.

And he didn't know how else he could get his attention.

[_I decided on you]_

Clouded.

Diluted.

Contaminated.

Darkened.

Blackened.

Sick.

_Poke._

_What's up, sexy?_

Shattered. Broken. Cracked from the inside out.

_You want to come over?_

He wanted Kurt.

Kurt was a whisper on the air.

Actions don't have consequences when you're begging for scraps at the gate to hell.

He was a coward.

Maybe he could stop this thing from obliterating him completely.

Maybe the only way to prevent Kurt from unintentionally hurting him, was to hurt himself first.

Maybe if he were already destroyed, then Kurt could move on without him.

Maybe they weren't meant to be.

Sour.

Twisted.

Harrowing.

He needed him.

He needed him, and he wasn't there.

He loved him.

He was a coward.


End file.
